


6:51 PM, The Bookstore Two Blocks West of Sam and Steve's Apartment

by turn_turn_turn



Series: Um, Hello - A Meet-Cute AU Series [8]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, M/M, Meet-Cute, and a sprinkling of 'Oh Hell No', in which Sam Wilson tenderly narrates a love story, with an extra dollop of HOLIDAY CHEER
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:24:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9006706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turn_turn_turn/pseuds/turn_turn_turn
Summary: ‘Twas the night before Christmas when Sam Wilson did grouse, “Please stop shagging in the living room - this is also MY house.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so this isn't so much a 'meet-cute' story as it is a 'how these dipshits met: the beginning of a horrifying saga that ends with Sam not having any place to sit that hasn't recently been the site of dry-humping - goddamnit Steven, can the two of you please control yourselves?' story. But it's FESTIVE!!! 
> 
> The premise here is that I personally love Samuel Thomas Wilson. And references involving Meg Ryan. And Samuel Thomas Wilson. 
> 
> Happy Holidays, ya filthy animals! And by 'filthy animals' I mean 'beautiful angels that deserve nothing but good things, this time of year and every time of year, amen.'

The bookstore is Sam's idea, technically.   

He's going to blame himself for this regardless.   

 

\---  

 

"Books," Sam announces to the nearly empty living room, arms spread wide. "Everybody loves books. Books are good for your mind and your soul – they feel good to hold in your hand. We are getting everybody books for Christmas."   

"Okay," Steve responds distractedly, not looking up from his drawing tablet.   

"I meant right now. Let's go – we've only got two weeks left and neither one of us has been shopping once. C'mon, up and out." Sam kicks the bottom of Steve's chair.   

"Alright, alright," Steve groans, definitely lacking the gusto Sam had been hoping for.  

Steve puts down his tablet and stretches, hands practically touching the ceiling.  

If Sam hadn't seen some braces-tastically glorious middle school yearbook photos, courtesy of the sainted Mama Rogers, he truly wouldn't believe Steve had ever been shrimpy as a kid; these days Steve is built like a brick shithouse. A brick shithouse with an alarming fondness for smedium t-shirts.  

"Can we find someplace small, though - locally owned maybe?" Steve asks, bending down to touch his toes. 

Sam shoots him a quizzical look. "You getting a touch of the hipster in your middle age, Rogers?"  

"Twenty-nine is hardly middle aged. Unless you know something about my fate that I don't - in which case please keep it to yourself." Steve pauses to yawn. "No, it's just that after the flaming diaper this year has been I don't really want to continue to feed into the corporate bullshit that benefits from watching us throw ourselves like lemmings off the cliff of consumerism and into a pit of apathy so deep and dark that the fall either _kills us_ or confines us to the terrible but oh-so-'patriotic' fate of being blind to all human suffering, even our own."  

Sam's lived with Steve for three years now, and he's grown accustomed to Steve's penchant for making declarative little speeches. He deciphers this one quickly: "You watched _You've Got Mail_ recently, didn't you."  

Steve sets his jaw. "I might have. My point stands. 2016 has been a total shit-sandwich and my usual holiday warm-and-fuzzies are barely breathing - a trip to Barnes & Noble might officially kill them dead."  

"You almost said 'Fox Books,' didn't -"  

"Sam."  

"Believe me, Rogers, I'm just as ready as you are to tell this year to fuck off and die – but in the meantime I'd like to get my mama something thoughtful. And I know you want to get your ma something too."  

Steve sighs. "Alright."  

"Good. I've already got a few shops mapped out - some of them look suitably teensy and grass-fed, or whatever." Sam nods at his phone screen. "Here, the first one is just around the corner. Maybe it's even owned by a Meg Ryan lookalike - you could grease your increasingly-rusty flirting skills."  

Steve grimaces. "Fuck off. And please don't use the word 'grease' in that context."  

"Alright, what suits you better – oil up? - luuuube-ri-cate?"  

"Ugh, Sam."  

"You know for a guy with a dildo collection you can be a total prude, sometimes."  

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, looking pained. "I am never playing truth or dare with Riley _ever again_."  

"Yeah, you definitely screwed yourself over on that one... and on the five other ones you've got in your bedside table! _Ohhhhhh!_ " Sam holds up both hands over his head, feeling triumphant.   

"You are a horrible best friend," Steve mutters, glaring half-heartedly. 

"That was masterful word play, you gotta hand it to me. C'mon, Rogers, gimme five – I deserve it for that one -"   

Steve crosses his arms over his chest. "You deserve a kick in the balls."  

"You wouldn't – the spirit of Christmas won't let you."  

"The spirit of Christmas can go fuck itself."  

"I think the term you are looking for is 'bah humbug.'"  

"I'll bah YOU right in YOUR humbugs if you don't -" 

"Oh c'mon, Rogers, you can do better than _that_ -" 

"You're a Feliz Navi-Douche – how's that? And are we goin' shopping or what? 'Cause I'm losing the enthusiasm I barely had to begin with." Steve scowls.  

Sam smirks at him. "Yeah, let's go - before you start concocting plans to make all the Whos cry. Goddamn, you are a cranky bastard these days. Would a hot chocolate help?"  

"That depends – whipped cream and sprinkles?" 

"I'll see what I can do."   

They head out, pulling on their coats and boots by the door and making their way down to the street.  

The sidewalk is crowded with the evening flood of home-goers and shoppers, and the bustle combined with the bite of chill in the air has Sam feeling cheerfully festive.  

He and Steve walk the few blocks over in companionable quiet, watching the people that pass and exchanging the occasional joke or mild insult with one another.  

Once at the store Sam and Steve make a beeline for the recipe book section, intending to find titles for each of their mothers.  

While scanning the pastry shelf, Sam mentally runs through the other possible purchases on his gift list: there's the Alice Roosevelt biography he's been considering for Riley, who is going through a historical nonfiction phase, a poetry collection Maria had specifically requested of him, and he's toying with the idea of a home fermentation manual for his dad.  

Sam had seen his pop's homemade kombucha efforts the last time he'd been to his parents' house, and as far as he could tell – or _smell_ – some sort of formal instruction might not go amiss in the future.  

Then again, Sam thinks - remembering the look on his ma's face as his dad had explained his newfound, intensely slimy hobby - maybe it's best not to encourage him.  

Sam's flipping through a copy of _Tartine Bread_ when Steve goes suddenly rigid at his side.   

"Oh God," Steve whines under his breath. "Cute, he's cute. Cute guy. _Shit_."  

Sam eyes Steve askance and then focuses back on the book in his hands. "Are you having a stroke? Man, how on earth was I _over_ selling it with 'rusty' - you see one attractive person and you go practically catatonic."  

"Sam, I'm not – shit. Just, like, _look_ at him."  

Sam looks toward where Steve is gesturing with the spine of _The Art of Simple Food_ ; behind the register counter at the front of the store is a tall, dark-haired guy in a hunter green flannel shirt. As Sam watches the guy leans his one elbow on the countertop, bending forward to say something to a tiny girl holding her mother's hand. The man's eyes crinkle up as her reply makes him laugh - and okay, Steve might be on to something here.   

"Mhmm, alright, he's a looker," Sam nods. "You gunna go over there?"   

"Go over?" Steve splutters, going red in the face. "I can't just – go over – what would I even, I can't – he's too -" And here Steve doesn't so much trail off as squeak his way into a register not audible to human ears.   

Sam sighs and closes his book, forcing Steve to meet his eyes. "Rogers. As entertained as I am by the homo-neurotic tension of this moment, I'm gunna need you to go talk to the boy. Just go talk to the boy, Steve. Use your words, convey meaning, _converse_ – you know the drill."   

"I _can't_ , Sam." Steve rubs at the back of his neck, clearly tense. "You said it yourself – I'm a disaster. I'd totally fuck it up."  

"Oh c'mon, man," Sam tries to assure him. "You might be a little clumsy with first impressions, but you make it charming as hell, too. It worked on me, didn't it?"  

"Sam, you and I went on two dates before you and Riley ran into each other again – I wouldn't really count that as working on anything -"  

"Hey now– me randomly stumbling across my high school sweetheart a decade after losing touch? You didn't stand a _chance_. And not because of your mediocre flirting skills - because Riley and I are _destiny_ , you know what I'm saying?"  

"Sounds to me like you're bragging about your perfect relationship while I'm in the middle of a crisis."  

"This is not a crisis, this is a conversation. Or it would be, if you'd just _go over there_ and start talking. No – what I'm saying is that if it's meant to be it'll be nearly impossible for you to fuck it up. You don't miss out on fate by bungling your first line – you miss out on fate by not saying anything. Just go introduce yourself and let him take it from there."  

Steve wrinkles his nose. "You're disgustingly romantic, you know that?"  

"Says the man having a love-at-first-sight moment two weeks before Christmas. I'm waiting for Nora Ephron to pop up from behind that shelf and start giving me cues."  

"It is NOT love at first sight – I'm just. He's just. He's really cute."  

"Then go tell him that!" Sam urges.  

"Oh God. I dunno – he's so, like, tall and dreamy. And he works in a bookstore – he's probably _smart_ _,_ " Steve whimpers, with a sucker-punched expression, as if he himself isn't also tall, and dreamy, and smart.  

Then again, Steve's never been one for thinking much of himself. Sam finds it pretty exasperating, most of the time. Now, for example. 

Sam sighs again, shrugging off the impulse to start running through his list of 87 Facts (And Counting) That Prove Steve Rogers Is A Total 10, Contrary To His Own Unacceptably Low Opinion, and deciding to have a go at diffusing the nervous tension instead.  

"Well he's gainfully employed, at any rate," he comments. "That's already more than you can say for your last boyfriend."  

"Hey, this economic climate is hard on all of us," Steve responds defensively. "Jeremy was just going through a particularly rough patch -"  

"I know, I know, I'm not judging. It's just that by the end it was really obvious he was using you as a sugar daddy – and the knowledge that you make ten dollars an hour and _still_ qualify as a viable sugar daddy candidate to a grown adult just put the financial woes of our generation into too stark a relief. Bummed me the fuck out."  Sam shrugs.  

"It was not like that."  

"It was a little like that. But hey, this one's got a job! How 'bout you go ask him about it? Or hey, ask him to help you find a book – perfect segue."  

"Ya think?" Steve shifts his broad shoulders anxiously.  

"I _know_. Now get." Sam swats him on the arm with the book. 

"Alright. Okay. Alright. I'm getting," Steve mumbles dazedly, but stands unmoving, eyes still fixed on the guy at the register.  

"Attaboy. Do you need any assistance? Maybe a soundtrack? I know all the words to 'This Magic Moment' - I could hide behind that plant and - "  

"Shut the fuck up," Steve mutters, finally moving his feet.  

 Sam watches with interest – _covert_ interest, that is, he knows how to play this – as Steve shuffles over toward the counter, hands shoved deep in his pockets and shoulders up around his ears.  

"Um, hey," Steve greets the dude, shifting from foot to foot.  

The guy looks up from the cash machine, meeting Steve's eye.  

"Hello," Sam hears the man say, in a deep, slightly rough voice. Then the guy lets his eyes drop down Steve's frame, giving him the once over – and alright, alright, off to a good start.  

Most likely oblivious to the guy's immediate interest, Steve continues in a nervous and slightly squeaky voice, "I'm, um, looking for ah, a book."  

Now an almost predatory look climbs over the cashier's handsome features. He leans over the counter again, angling his face closer to Steve and letting a sly smile quirk up one side of his mouth.  

Steve has the dude's full attention, no mistaking that.   

Unless you are Steve Rogers, apparently, who is still standing there with the apprehensive expression of a man about to face down an army with nothing more than a hubcap for protection.  

The cashier's smile widens, revealing bright white teeth. "Oh? Are you looking for anything specific? Or just a book in general – one with pages, maybe? A few words here and there?" he teases.  

Sam can't help but admire the man quick snark; it's a bold tactic, practically forcing Steve to either match his playfulness or flounder. And though Steve might be a bundle of nerves in the face of - well, a pretty face, Sam has faith that he can rise to the challenge.  

Sam waits, sending out silent encouragements.  

After a moment Steve snorts, shoulders shrugging. "I was thinking something with glyphs, actually - maybe carved into a rock? You got an Antiquarian section?"  

And _there's_ the little shit Sam knows and loves.   

The cashier guy laughs, bright and charming - and yeah, Sam's boy has _got this_.   

Sam smirks to himself as he turns toward the DIY section. Maybe he will look into something for his dad, just for kicks.  

 

\---  

 

Two weeks later, Sam is wishing he'd bought a 'How To Be Less Amazing At Pep Talks' manual instead.   

Being a terrific wingman is his cross to bear, apparently - and that cross looks a lot like two well-muscled dudes in a perpetual make-out session taking up all the space on Sam's comfortable fucking couch.  

"Come _on_ , you guys," Sam grits out for what feels like the thousandth time today. "What the fuck. I don't even need to whip out the cliched 'get a room' jab, because you've GOT a room – and it's ten feet that way. Will you please just go do _that_ in _there_ _-_ behind a door and away from the communal surfaces. I eat in here."   

He also has plans to binge-watch every Christmas episode of _The West Wing_ on his beautiful big-screen television, like he does every holiday season, but he doesn't bring that part up.   

When Steve pulls away from his new boyfriend, Sam swears to God a suction-cup popping sound is made.  

Steve raises a blonde eyebrow in Sam's direction with what Sam thinks is entirely too much poise, given the situation - the situation being him enthusiastically wrapped around this new Bucky-person like a horny, teenage octopus. Or whatever.   

Eyebrow still aloft, Steve adds a smirk. "You know for a guy with a thing for fuzzy handcuffs you can be a total prude, sometimes."   

Sam just stares at Steve's smug expression for a few beats, hands on his hips, and then lets free a heavy sigh.  

"Riley!" Sam calls down the hallway.   

Riley pokes his head around the door frame of Sam's bedroom, his hair as disheveled as ever and a half-eaten candy cane in his hand.  

"You callllled?" Riley drawls, exaggerating his accent the way he does when he wants to make Sam laugh.   

Sam feels the corners of his mouth twitch, but he clamps down on the instinct. He addresses his traitorous fiance with as stern a voice as he can muster: "I thought we agreed that you'd only play truth or dare with Steve to get ammunition on _him_ , not the other way around?"   

Riley leans against the door, looking unbothered by Sam's dangerous tone. "Well yeah, but last time we were on the tequila – and you know how that does me with the uh, the truthiness," he admits. "It's like that lie-detector potion they use in Harry Potter -"  

"Veritaserum," Steve fills in.   

"Nerd," New Bucky-person snorts, jostling Steve a little. 

"Hey!" Steve scoffs. "YOUwere the one reading _Goblet of Fir_ _e_ to the kids during story hour yesterday."   

"And YOU were the one who came all the way down to the bookstore just to watch me read to a bunch of kiddos – either you're a huge nerd or a huge sap. We've only been going out two weeks and you're already stalking me at work - I think you like me, or somethin'," New Bucky-person teases, actually nuzzling against Steve's neck.  

Steve blushes but leans into the touch. "Maybe I just like your Victor Krum impression."   

"It _is_ pretty good."   

"Alright, fellas," Sam interjects before they can start frenching again. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Riley duck back into their bedroom, obviously bent on escape. "I think we are losing sight of my earlier point – that being that I would like to lose sight of the two of you feeling each other up, you got me? Tomorrow is Christmas Eve and I have some traditions to uphold that involve that couch you are writhing around on top of. And spoiler alert: none of them include copping a feel."  

"Boo!" comes a shout from down the hallway.   

"Okay, none of them include copping a feel with either of _you_ ," Sam amends.    

"Yay!" comes another shout.   

"You know Hanukkah starts tomorrow too," Steve muses. "Maybe Bucky has some traditions he'd like to uphold – seems only fair to include those as well."   

It's Sam's turn to raise his eyebrows. "Oh, are you two about to switch playing tonsil hockey for playing dreidel? If that's so, be my fucking guest. Just keep your hands out of each others pants – I know there ain't no gelt in there."  

New Bucky-person gives Sam a lewd wink. "Oh, I think you'd be surprised."  

"I think _you'll_ be surprised when I knee you in the balls," Sam tells him. "Get off my fucking couch, lovebirds – it's my turn."  

"Alright," Steve sighs, standing up and pulling New Bucky-person with him. "C'mon Buck, let's go to my room and leave Cranky Sue to his festive-Aaron-Sorkin ritual."  

Sam drops down on the couch as soon as there's room, feeling proprietary and trying to ignore the residual body heat in the cushions.  He reaches out for the remote on the coffee table and pulls up Netflix.   

"Oh man, _The West Wing_? I love _The West Wing_ ," New Bucky-person mutters, gazing at the TV and resisting the pull of Steve's hand in his.   

"Who doesn't?" Sam questions, eyes already fixed on the screen. "You can stay and watch, but only on the condition that -"   

"No necking with Steve, got it." New Bucky-person plops down in the armchair to Sam's right.   

Steve shakes his head, looking incredulous at Bucky's choice of dry political drama over _kissing_ , which Sam thinks is reasonable; having kissed Steve more than a few times himself, Sam is qualified to make the comparison, and it's a very tough call.   

Steve's kissing does not involve anything resembling Allison Janney though, which is not a point in its favor. So maybe Bucky-person has his priorities straight.   

Sam gives Steve the side-eye as he snuggles down into the chair next to Bucky, half-draped over his lap, but the two of them seem content to keep things PG for the time being.  

And good on them - President Bartlet wouldn’t stand for all this PDA hoo-ha, and neither will Sam.   

The gooey hand-holding he'll let slide. It _is_ Christmas, after all.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays, my friends!!! I hope you are all cozy and warm and content today, tomorrow and everyday. 
> 
> P.S. Are you guys getting the impression that I find MCU Steve's affinity for khakis and tight t-shirts highly amusing? No? Okay hold on, let me make another 8500 jokes about it.  
> P.P.S. The two recipe books mentioned in this fic are Alice Water's 'The Art of Simple Food,' which is my personal Bible, and 'Tartine Bread' by Chad Robertson. They are so. good.  
> P.P.P.S. You all have made this project so wonderful! I appreciate you taking the time to read and kudo and comment - you make my day again and again. I am so glad to share these stories with you.  
> P.P.P.P.S. <3


End file.
